


like an ocean being warmed by the sun

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Melissa McCall/Sheriff Stilinski, Oblivious Pining, Sort Of, but still somehow manage to use their words eventually, idk how to tag this one tbh, is that a thing?, it side swipes a lot of tropes, stupid boys oblivious to their own feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: The truth is this: when Derek first returned to Beacon Hills all those years ago and discovered Laura dead, Stiles was the first person to treat him as though he was something more than an afterthought. For that alone, Derek's always been grateful. It was just unfortunate that at the time gratitude, like every other emotion Derek experienced in the wake of his family’s slaughter, tended to express itself like the whistle of steam escaping a boiling kettle. Hot, urgent, likely to scald anyone who got too close. In truth most people mistook it for anger.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 71
Kudos: 767
Collections: Fandom Cares





	like an ocean being warmed by the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorchasilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorchasilver/gifts).



> This is my third and final BLM fic for fandom cares! Thanks so much for bidding Sorchasilver, you're the best! I'm sorry this took so long to write. I've had the first two thirds of this written for months, but couldn't get the end to come out right. In the end I went with this -- and I hope you don't mind. I'm gonna call it an ALMOST fake/pretend relationship fic. Because -- well -- you'll see. Blame Derek. He was being difficult. Sometimes you just have to let the characters have their way. *nervous laughter*
> 
> Thanks to Grimmypuff for the beta!
> 
> Title is taken from Simple Song by the Shins.

After what Derek will, years later, come to view as the final fight, he ups and disappears into the night without looking back.

There’s nothing for him in Beacon Hills anymore. His family is gone, and the pack that he knew is fragmenting, scattering to the winds as high school ends, and its members head out to college. Derek has no interest in waiting around alone for them to return in a town which has the ghosts of his past on every corner.

So, he gets into the Camaro and drives. 

There’s no particular direction. No one place he has a burning desire to be, and nobody after him anymore. He finds himself heading north, takes a winding path across mountains wreathed in early morning mist and through towering redwood forests, his heart light, and his time his own.

It takes around a week of aimless journeying but eventually he reaches the coast and finds himself sitting on a beach one night, bare toes scrunching in the sand, the moon above him full, and bright as a new penny. It casts ripples of silvery light over the inky blackness of the ocean, and he feels the pull of it prickling under his skin.

Buried deep in his mind are recollections of day trips to beaches like this one, of full moons past spent with his family, of long vacations which always began with him and his sisters crammed into the back of his mom’s station wagon, bickering and laughing, and always ended with them returning to Beacon Hills, sun bronzed, sleepy and content. 

For the first time since he made the decision to leave he feels a pang of regret. Not because he misses Beacon Hills, but because the memory of having a home — a place that belongs to him, where he is safe, accepted — cherished even — is so distant it almost feels like a dream. He let go of the idea years ago — put it aside as something, if not childish, than certainly unattainable. 

In moments like these though— 

With a sigh he tilts his head back. The breeze picks up a little, plucking at the hairs on his bare arms and making him shiver. Waves lap restlessly at the shore, and salt sea air bites at his lungs. He shuts his eyes and lets the hurt, the longing, and the loneliness, swell in his chest, feels it rise, crest, and finally break over him. Feels every bit of it, until he’s winded from it, shaking, gasping for air, tears leaking silently down his cheeks. 

Then, as quickly as the feeling came, it recedes; Derek takes a deep, trembling breath, and opens his eyes.

The world is still here. Nothing has changed. Grief is still grief, and he will carry on despite the weight of it, just as he always has. 

Like the tide, he is subject to the moon. Wherever he goes on earth it’s pull is inescapable. He has no home. Like a boat unmoored, adrift on the ocean, he follows the whims of the currents now; for the moment it is enough.

-

For three years he drifts across country from state to state. This job. That town. No particular agenda, no home to call his own, but no battles to fight either. It’s easy enough. He flashes a smile, flirts a little, and work comes his way easy enough— but not friendship, so he doesn’t settle. Some days it feels like this aimless, rootless life is all he will ever have, and it isn’t necessarily a bad feeling. Sure, there’s a loneliness to it, but he isn’t afraid of that, not anymore.

Inevitably, though, the currents pull him back to Beacon Hills eventually. John Stilinski gets in contact, asking for advice on a crime with the potential to be supernatural in origin. A request for advice turns into him asking Derek to come back and lend his particular skills to the investigation. 

Even though the murder in question ends up being mundane in origin, when Derek makes to leave, John is eager to point out that a deputy with supernatural skills might be very useful in Beacon Hills, especially since Jordan Parrish moved on. 

There’s a part of Derek that rebels. For the longest time Beacon Hills has felt like poison in his bloodstream, a millstone round his neck dragging him down. And yet. He finds that being back here, working with John, having even one or two people around who know him and his history, is cathartic.

He hems and haws. 

Spends a little time researching the requirements for being a deputy.

Has dinner with John and Melissa twice over the course of the next week.

Learns that Scott is up in Seattle where he’s started a new pack, and Stiles is completing a masters in education at Columbia.

The McCall pack, such as it was, isn’t really a presence in Beacon Hills anymore, and the Nemeton is pretty quiet by all accounts.

That decides it for Derek, he stays. 

-

The next couple of years pass in a blur. Derek becomes a deputy, and finds that he’s good at his job, and that he likes it. He buys an apartment, gets therapy, and tentatively starts to put down roots. John and Melissa (who got married a few years back), keep an eye out for him. Derek even goes on a couple of dates. The relationships don’t last, their initial interest in his looks isn’t enough to sustain a relationship once they discover the rats nest of issues underneath. Still — nobody dies, so he takes it as a win.

All in all, it isn’t bad. He might even tentatively describe it as good. The ghosts that seemed to haunt every corner of this town have finally been laid to rest. Only bittersweet memories remain, but the ache they bring is bearable, satisfying even, in its own way — because it means he hasn’t forgotten what he’s lost. 

Derek finds he can finally breathe.

-

When Stiles returns to Beacon Hills aged twenty five, and gets a job at Beacon Hills High School as a history teacher, Derek’s completely unprepared.

Well, unprepared, except for the part where John sought him out at the department potluck three weeks beforehand and specifically told him that it was happening.

Still. That wasn’t _enough_ time to adequately prepare him _._

Somewhere in Derek’s mind, Stiles lives as a perpetually scrawny seventeen year old. The intuitiveness, bravery and loyalty that Derek always grudgingly admired, balanced against brash sarcasm, barely suppressed anxiety, and a personality that’s gratingly obnoxious on a good day. 

It isn’t that Derek doesn’t like Stiles precisely— except— well, maybe it is. Sort of. After all, Stiles isn’t exactly likable. Even back in the day he lacked Scott’s earnestness, or Kira’s sweetness, or Liam’s optimism. Stiles was — _is_ — difficult, often deliberately so — but it isn’t as though Derek’s a picnic to be around either, so he’s never held that against him. 

The truth is this: when Derek first returned to Beacon Hills all those years ago and discovered Laura dead, Stiles was the first person to treat him as though he was something more than an afterthought. For that alone, Derek's always been grateful. It was just unfortunate that at the time gratitude, like every other emotion Derek experienced in the wake of his family’s slaughter, tended to express itself like the whistle of steam escaping a boiling kettle. Hot, urgent, likely to scald anyone who got too close. In truth most people mistook it for anger.

Anyway, the point is, the fact that Stiles was snarky when he should be sensitive, and belligerent when he should be gentle, never mattered to Derek that much. He learned a long time ago that there was a difference between being nice and being good and he knew which he valued more.

Stiles was not nice. He wasn’t easy. He was probably going to irritate the living shit out of Derek for the foreseeable future, and having him back living permanently in Beacon Hills was without question a good thing.

However, none of that changed the fact that ever since Derek got wind of his impending return he had been, stupidly, expecting Stiles to be as he remembered him all those years ago.

Seventeen.

Scrawny.

Not. 

Not this.

This broadshouldered fucking guy with warm brown eyes and artfully tousled hair, pushing a shopping cart around Target at nine o’clock on an idle Tuesday evening, as Derek searches for tube stocks and Tang. 

“Hey! If it isn’t Deputy Hale,” Stiles drawls, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a smile. He executes a sloppy salute. “Good to see you! How’s it going?”

How it’s going, is that Derek is having a minor internal crisis over how big Stiles’ hands are. However, he manages to hold it together enough to say a curt, “Fine.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, Stiles just rolls his eyes and snarks, “I’m fine, too, seeing as you asked.”

“I—” Derek can feel his ears burning. “How’s the new job?”

“S’good.” Stiles looks like he wants to laugh, and Derek remembers viscerally why Stiles was always simultaneously both his favorite and the fucking _worst._ “How’s deputizing?”

“S’good.” Derek mimics the exact tone of Stiles’ voice, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah. My dad said. Says you’ve settled into the department really well. He talks about it a lot actually. It’s — kind of annoying.”

“Sorry.” Derek smirks.

“I don’t think you mean that.” Stiles grins and Derek’s stomach does a flip flop, totally without his permission.

“How are things living back with your dad?” Derek asks, blindly grabbing a pack of tube socks, and stuffing them into his shopping basket.

“I mean—” Stiles winces. “It’s good. It’s pretty good.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “You know werewolves can tell when someone is lying.”

“Hmmm.” Stiles screws up his face in a frown. “Fine. I could do without all the fucking, is that what you wanna hear?” When Derek looks confused, Stiles clarifies, “My Dad and Melissa. They’re the ones fucking.”

“Ah.” Of course. That makes sense. Even three years into their marriage, there’s still a distinctly newlywed vibe to the two of them.

“Even without that though—” Stiles sighs. “I guess I’ve been used to a degree of uh— independence. Much as I love my Dad, and I’m glad to be back, living in the same house—”

It’s not as though Derek isn’t listening. He’s been listening. Attentively. It’s just that it feels like his brain is a web browser with fifty tabs open. Alongside, ‘What is Stiles saying?’ and ‘Why are Stiles’ hands so big?’, is ‘Has Stiles always smelled this good?’ and ‘I wonder what Stiles’ hair feels like?’ and so on and so on, until his brain is basically stuttering and stalling, and his mouth completely without his brain’s permission says, “I have a spare room.”

Stiles stares at him, lips (have Stiles’ lips always been this pink?) falling open in surprise. “Are you bragging about it? Or are you offering it to me?”

“Yes?” Derek says, uncertainly, his brain two seconds away from blue screening.

“Which?”

“The uh— the second one. I’m offering you the room.” 

“I—” Stiles gapes, a flush appearing high on his cheeks. “That’s — huh.”

“You don’t have too,” Derek says quickly. The tiny part of his brain that’s still capable of rational thought making a final desperate bid to apply the emergency brake and slow down this conversational runaway train.

“No— I. That might be really good,” Stiles says. He looks young all of a sudden, as he folds his arms across his chest and smiles, small and grateful. There’s an echo of the guy Derek used to know somewhere in there, and somehow that settles him.

“Good,” Derek says, and finds he means it. He stuffs the tiny, rational part of his brain that wants to protest into a box and sits on it, ignoring it’s muffled screams. “Maybe you could drop by and view—”

“I’m free now,” Stiles says, and then flushing a deeper pink, he looks away. “Or—”

There’s a moment where Derek can do nothing but blink. “Ok,” he says. “I just need to uh—” He gestures to his basket.  
  
“Yeah, sure!” Stiles says. “No problem.”

By the end of the evening it’s decided, Derek’s gonna have a new roommate.

-

Stiles bites his nails _._ He hoards mugs of half drunk coffee in his room, using a new mug for each new drink, rather than washing his existing one. Until over the course of a week, he’s hoarded _all_ the mugs in the fucking apartment, meaning that Derek is then forced to go and retrieve approximately fifteen different mugs from Stiles’ bedroom and wash them all, just so he can make himself a drink.

Stiles leaves stuff everywhere. _Everywhere_. Wet towels on the bathroom floor. Shoes, which Stiles never places on the rack, opting instead to kick them off randomly, often directly in front of the front door, where Derek is most likely to trip over them when he arrives home. Piles of graded and ungraded papers are stacked in drifts around the living room, cluttering every available surface. Hoodies and sweatshirts are left lying in crumpled heaps. Whatever books Stiles is reading (and he’s always reading about eight at any one time) are dotted around their shared living space, most of them splayed out face down on whatever page Stiles is on, rather than using a bookmark. It sets Derek’s teeth on edge.

It isn’t just Stiles’ stuff, either. A couch that should fit three people easily, fits one sprawling Stiles, his limbs unfolding to take up all the available space, as he flops there and talks and talks and talks about his work, the kids, the other teachers. Particularly Michael, the asshole English teacher who Stiles has scathingly declared his nemesis after, “He ate my fucking sandwich, the _dick.”_

Perhaps most annoyingly, though, Stiles sings loudly and tunelessly in the shower every morning before he leaves for school. Derek knows this, because he’s often in his bedroom across the hall, trying to sleep in after finishing the swing shift at the station. It’s not so much the singing that’s the problem, (although it _is_ a problem), it’s the fact that Stiles has a peculiar genius for misremembering lyrics.  
  
“It’s ‘nice dress’”, Derek yells, thumping on the door to the bathroom at six AM, when he just can’t stand it anymore. “Not ‘ice chest’. For fucks sake, Stiles.”

There’s the sound of wet feet slapping across the tiled floor towards the bathroom door and then Stiles cracks it open and peers out; a whoosh of steam hits Derek full in the face.

“Wait! You know Taylor Swift. Wait, you think I’m singing it wrong? Seriously?” he says, blinking. There’s water clinging to his eyelashes, and shampoo in his hair, making it stick up in slick, soapy peaks. 

“Why would she be standing in an ice chest staring at a sunset?”

“I don’t know? Maybe it’s a hot day? I didn’t really question it Derek. She’s painting a picture with her words. Maybe the ice chest has thematic significance. It could represent the coldness of—”

“Seriously?” Derek grits out. “And while we’re on the subject. In Blank Space, she doesn’t have a long list of Starbucks lovers either.”

Stiles blinks. Water from his eyelashes falls, tracing a path down one cheek. Derek does not want to lick it. “That doesn’t sound right at all, but ok. I will check the lyrics on Google later, and prove you wrong.”

“You do that.”

With that Derek stomps back to his room. 

“Even if you’re right I like my version better!” Stiles calls after him.

With a grunt, Derk throws himself on his bed, and buries his head under his pillow. 

A few seconds later, Stiles starts singing again.

The fucker.

-

It isn’t all bad though.

Stiles cooks well. Far better than Derek. He makes waffles for breakfast, or sometimes pancakes, and always manages to get the bacon extra crisp, just the way Derek likes it. He makes homemade lasagna, buffalo chicken, and steak. Derek’s eating better than he has done in years. 

Stiles is smart and funny too, in a way that Derek can admit he appreciates. Whether it’s the two of them bitching about their respective work days (mostly Stiles), or just complaining about whatever show they’re watching on the TV, Stiles has always got something to say that is both insightful _and_ has Derek smirking to himself for the rest of the day.

Then there’s the issue of how attractive Stiles has become. Through prolonged exposure over the last three months, Derek’s gotten to the point where he can actually function around Stiles without his brain dribbling out of his ears. He is aware that Stiles at twenty-five is lean, lithe, and deceptively muscular. He knows that Stiles’ wide, mobile mouth, with it’s perfectly pink lips, and Stiles’ hands with their broad palms, and long fingers, and his ass when he— Just. God. Fuck. 

Ok. The attraction thing is a work in progress.

But Derek’s definitely getting better about it. 

The main thing though, is that Stiles fits Derek. He fills the empty spaces in Derek’s life, like he fills the couch, warm and vital and real. Derek can count on one hand the number of people he would feel comfortable inviting into his space like this, confident they will not take advantage of his trust; Stiles is definitely top of the list. 

Yes, there are a hundred different things Derek can name about Stiles that drive him up the wall, but they all pale into insignificance next to the fact that for the first time since his family died, when Derek gets back after a day at work, he feels like he’s _home_ because Stiles is there _._

And for that feeling alone, Derek will wash all the mugs and tolerate any number of six AM wake up calls.

All in all, Derek’s pretty sure that living with Stiles is the best worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

-

They manage three months as roommates without incident before the shit hits the proverbial fan.

“So,” Stiles says one evening, while they’re slouched watching the Bachelor together on the couch. “Weird thing.”

He’s been squirrely with nerves all evening, twitchy and anxious, scent sour with nerves in a way that Derek remembers from years ago, but hasn’t witnessed in forever.

“What’s weird?” Derek asks, when Stiles doesn’t say anything.

“Well. Uh.” He flushes pink, and he won’t take his eyes off the TV. Immediately Derek’s heart sinks.

“What did you do.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Stiles says injured. “There’s no blame. It’s just a — a misunderstanding.”

“Right.”

“So there’s this thing they do at work like a social thing. A meal. At that fancy restaurant in town. You know, the Italian one. The humanities staff go there every year, apparently, and you’re allowed to bring partners and—” Stiles swallows. “And that guy, Michael. You remember him?”

“The sandwich stealing asshole.”

“Right.” Stiles nods vigorously. “Fucking pretentious lit bro—” He affects a voice. “You haven’t read Kerouac? I’ve read On the Road every year since I was twelve. It’s just such a pure experience and—”

“Stiles.”

“Ok! Ok. Not the point. Right. Well. He was bragging about the date he’s gonna bring, and how hot they were, and I may have— accidentally.” He wrings his hands.

“What?”

“Look you’re legitimately the hottest person I know, ok?”

Derek’s throat clicks as he swallows, face going perfectly blank. “You told them I was your date?”

“I told them you were my boyfriend.” He looks wide eyed and anxious. “I can. I’ll just. Tell him you’re not. If you want. I mean. Or I could hire an escort, called Derek. Who is also hot, and _they_ could—”

“No.”

“Right. Bad idea.”

Unbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. Derek isn’t sure whether he wants to punch a wall or kiss Stiles full on the mouth. “When is it?”

“Friday.” Stiles’ eyes are huge, and the stench of panic and embarrassment is coming off him in waves, along with something else Derek can’t quite name. “This Friday.”

“So three days away.” Against his better judgement Derek sighs, and says, “I’ll speak to your dad, see if I can get anyone to swap shifts with me.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”

Derek glares.  
  
Immediately Stiles lunges at him, closing the distance between them before Derek can think to move. Suddenly he finds himself with an armful of Stiles, and is being hugged within an inch of his life.

“Forget Scott. You’re my new best friend.” The words are muffled, said as they are, into the meat of Derek’s shoulder.

After a beat, Derek hugs him back. “It’s nothing,” he says, but the creeping warmth he feels in his chest makes a liar of him.

-

“Hear you’re taking my son out this Friday.”

Like a deer caught in the headlights Derek stills, one hand still reaching toward the last of the muffins that Deputy McClay brought into the station earlier today.

“Uh—” Derek shakes himself a little, and forces himself to relax. To make eye contact. “Well—”

“That’s nice.” The expression on John’s face is carefully neutral, except for his gaze which is piercing. “You’ve been getting on well then, since he moved in with you.” The words feel pointed, even though he says them blandly enough.

“Yeah. Stiles is—”

Derek finds he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Reaching past him, John grabs the last muffin. Taking a big bite, he grins. “You don’t mind, do you, Derek? What with Stiles _and_ Melissa on my back about my diet these days, I’ve gotta take opportunities when I can. This’ll be our secret, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Enjoy your date with my son.” He pats Derek on the arm. “Maybe this Sunday the two of you could come over for brunch. A little double date? You can tell us all about it.”

“Uh— I mean this is just. A favor. Because of.” Derek swallows. “Has Stiles talked to you about the English teach—” 

“Sheriff! There’s a call for you on line two!” someone calls.

“Brunch. Sunday,” John says, with a grin. “We wanna hear all about the big date.”

“I. Uh. It isn’t—”

It’s too late. John is gone.

-

It isn’t a date. It definitely isn’t a date. It’s just one friend doing a favor for another friend. 

So Derek isn’t worried. 

He isn’t exactly gonna turn down brunch either, because Melissa’s cooking is legendary. But Stiles can be the one to explain the misunderstanding to the Stilinskis. After all, it’s his plan and his family.

Sure, the fly in the ointment is that Derek may kind of be attracted to Stiles — but that’s all it is. Just attraction. Just physical. It isn’t as though he has _feelings._ So it’s totally manageable. 

That’s what he tells himself.

-

The front door to the apartment slams shut, and moments later Derek looks up from where he’s reading a book on the couch to find Stiles standing over him.

"So we should probably agree to some stuff in advance about our backstory, just in case anyone asks,” Stiles says without preamble. He’s just arrived home from work, and the dinner is tonight, which gives them approximately three hours, before they’ve got to leave. “Also set some boundaries for like—” He waves a hand between them. “--physical stuff.”

“Physical stuff?” Derek cocks an eyebrow.

“Kissing. Hand holding. All that shit.”

“Right.” Derek hadn’t really thought about that; he swallows.

Stiles shoots him a look that on someone elses face might be called concern. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I know that.” Derek feels a sudden surge of irritation, but can’t unpick whether it’s directed at himself or Stiles.

“I mean. I know your relationship history is—”

“Stiles, it’s fine.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You should get to decide where the lines are, though.”

“ _We_ should decide, we both need to be comfortable.”

“Pff,” Stiles snorts. “Like I’d ever say no to—” He cuts off abruptly, face turning to an interesting shade of pink. Clearing his throat he says, “Anyway. Backstory. How did we meet?”

“You were trespassing.”

“Seriously!” Stiles double takes at him. “You wanna go with the truth?”

“We won’t mention I’m a werewolf,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “But if we keep it as close to the truth as possible it’ll make things easier.”

“So, what? We knew each other years ago, but you weren’t attracted to me, so nothing happened.”

“You were too young anyway,” Derek points out.

“Right, exactly!” Stiles waves a hand airily. “But then I came back from college all grown up and you saw me in Target and were stunned by how handsome and smart and funny I was!” He claps a hand to his chest and bats his eyes. “You couldn’t resist! We had a whirlwind romance, and you asked me to move in with you immediately.”

This time it’s Derek’s turn to flush. “Ok—” he says. “And you fell for me because—”

Stiles gestures broadly at him. “What’s not to fall for? Your manifold grumpy charms are pretty fucking obvious to everyone, dude. It’s like I said, you’re the hottest person I know.”

“Hot. Right.” Derek doesn’t know why he feels like the ground is falling away from under him, feels his stomach drop, and something that feels a lot like disappointment rise in his chest.

He knows people find him attractive. That isn’t news. That’s the first thing people seem to notice about him. Most of the time it’s all anyone ever sees. 

Across from him, Stiles is giving him a strange look. 

“What?” Derek snaps.

“Are you mad because I think you’re hot?” Stiles says. “Because objectively—”

“No.” But Derek is. Or rather, he’s annoyed because that’s the first place Stiles went. After all their shared history. After everything— after all Stiles means to him— and Derek’s just _hot._

Which is stupid. He knows it’s stupid. Because he’s been thirsting after Stiles for weeks. He’s a fucking hypocrite.

And yet.

Oh fuck. He isn’t just attracted to Stiles.

It isn’t just physical. He’s been lying to himself. It’s so much _more._

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Derek says, shaking his head. “I don’t— I don’t know if—” He sits down abruptly, panic rising in his chest, and puts his head in his hands.

“Dude!” There’s a moment where Stiles hovers over him, hands fluttering like hummingbird wings, before he crouches down next to him, forehead creased in concern. “I — what do you—?”

It’s only years of therapy that enable Derek to swallow his pride and anxiety, look up, and say, “I don’t think I can do this tonight—” He’s shaking. His hands are trembling. He plows on anyway. “I don’t think I can pretend.”

“You — you don’t have to. We don’t have to. I’ll cancel. Or I’ll go alone. Jesus, Derek, you look really pale, are you—?” Stiles puts his hand to Derek’s forehead, and Derek wants to lean into that touch.

Instead he says, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. It was stupid of me to ask.” Stiles bites his lip, and ducks his head. He mumbles, “Like this the plot of a fucking rom com, and if I ask you to fake date me you’ll suddenly realize your feelings, and like me back.”

Derek blinks. “L—Like you back.”

“Oh—” Stiles blushes, a furious and immediate crimson. “Shit.”

“Stiles do you like me?”

“Derek—” He shuts his eyes and looks away, and that’s almost answer enough. Almost.

“Do you like me? Or do you just think I’m hot?”

Stiles’ head snaps round so fast Derek winces. “You think that’s all I see? The way you look? You’re funny, and you’re smart. I like the way we argue with each other, because it feels like we’re always pushing each other to be better. Hell, Derek! You know why I came back to Beacon Hills in the first place, despite all the shit that’s gone on here? Because I knew you were gonna be here. Because once I knew you were here, I knew I would feel safe. Fuck. I trust you, Derek. We’ve been through enough shit together for three lifetimes, and we can still come home to each other, fucking sit on the couch and watch shitty reality TV and laugh. We can still—” He blinks rapidly. “Just hot? Hot is like the fiftieth thing on the list of reasons I like you. It’s just the one that felt easiest to say.”

There isn’t much Derek can say to that. Words have never really been his strong suit, and he exhausted most of the ones he has admitting that he didn’t want to pretend. So in the absence of words, he surges forward and kisses Stiles instead. For a second Stiles is completely and utterly still, then, with a broken moan he presses forward, and starts kissing back.

It feels right.

Natural.

It feels like coming home.

-

They go to the work dinner after all that evening, but there’s nothing pretend about their relationship. Stiles holds Derek’s hand under the table, his thumb rubbing circles over Derek’s knuckles, as he trades barbs with fucking Michael the English teacher, who, it turns out, really is a shithead. 

“I can’t believe he wore a turtleneck, and quoted Nietzche.” Derek says on the way home. He and Stiles are holding hands as they walk back to the Camaro.

“Five times,” Stiles says. “He quoted Nietzsche five times. Dick.”

That night, when they get home, Stiles sleeps in Derek’s room. Just sleeps. Turns out that’s all Derek’s ready for tonight. When they wake on Saturday, they have the entire day stretching before them together. It’s a fresh start, with no mistakes in it, and it belongs to them.

“We should just stay here and snuggle,” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around Derek, who has his head on Stiles’ chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Derek says, lifting his head presses a kiss to the underside of Stiles’ jaw, then another to his cheek, and then his mouth.

They don’t get out of bed for a long time after that, and they don’t leave the house again until brunch the next day.

When they arrive at John and Melissa’s place, hand in hand, John opens the door to them and grins widely at the sight. “Welp. Date went well I take it. Come in boys. Looks like I’m gonna have to sit you down and give you both the shovel talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this strange little offering XD. Almost Fake/Pretend relationships. IT'S A THING. Don't @ me. Seriously though, I'm sorry that they didn't go the full nine yards with it. I just couldn't get it to write properly. idk why :/
> 
> I have no particular objection to Nietzsche btw, before anyone asks. I don't want to agitate the Nietzsche fandom. I could've just as easily picked Voltaire or whoever.
> 
> Anyway, if you leave kudos and/or comments, I'm eternally grateful.
> 
> Also, BLM!!!!!


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